A Building of Bridges
by Unique
Summary: No one would ever send Sherlock in to diffuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that's exactly what happened. "Congratulations, Lestrade," he called out sarcastically. "You're traumatizing a war veteran."
1. Chapter 1

AN: Thanks to k_for_kerfuffle for all their advice and critiques, particularly the ones I didn't follow.

The second half will be posted Saturday.

A Building of Bridges

Sherlock was with Lestrade when the call came over the radio, a mere three streets away from where the situation was unfolding. The officer who made the call sounded young, frightened, and ill-equipped to handle a gunshot victim and an armed suspect.

"I have to get over there," said Lestrade. "You're going to follow me, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't even dignify him with a response; he merely began trotting down the pavement with his long distance-eating strides. Lestrade sighed and jogged to catch up.

The crime scene was obvious to even the dullest idiot, marked by a crowd of spectators being frantically pushed back by a handful of PCs. No one was shooting; in fact, the spectators seemed unaware that their lives were in danger. As Sherlock drew closer, he began sorting through the details. The body lay in the mouth of an alley. It died of a single gunshot wound to the chest; more specifically the heart, judging by the blood volume. Prior to the shooting, there was a brief scuffle during which its nose was fractured via an elbow to the face. The source of that gunshot was a man huddled halfway down the alley with the gun still held in his hands; he had likely tried to flee but had been trapped by a garden gate that blocked through passage.

The man was military, army judging by his thighs, but had been out for some time. He was on guard but not threatening. His clothes were dishevelled; his shirt was only half tucked into his beige chinos and he was covered in dust. There was something unusual about the way he was watching the street, but Sherlock would need to see his face more clearly, and it wasn't safe to intrude on the man's territory.

"Move back," said Lestrade. "We're moving in to speak to him and I want you safe."

"Inadvisable," stated Sherlock.

"Tough," replied Lestrade, misunderstanding. He physically moved Sherlock back behind a car.

It was disgusting how the others were looking to Lestrade for guidance as though they were incapable of independent thought. Off they trotted like cattle to the slaughter.

Sherlock could hear the constables speaking to the man, demanding that he disarm himself but Sherlock was watching the man's body language. It was almost animalistic, pure adrenal response: a mixture of instinct and panic. The man stared at the approaching constables, exchanging swift glances at both of the blocked exits. The rapid movements of his head made the sun reflect off of his short blond hair. He pressed back against the maroon brick wall, crouching on the balls of his feet to present a smaller target. His fingers flitted rapidly over the gun before he raised his arms to take aim at the officers.

His stance, his actions, the wounds on the dead body all screamed efficiency and skill, but there was something- and here Sherlock tilted his head with interest- automatic about it all. Abruptly, everything fell into place: the deceased, the scuffle, the soldier. Sherlock estimated that they had mere seconds before one of the officers was shot, probably killed.

"Congratulations, Lestrade," he called out sarcastically. "You're traumatizing a war veteran."

Lestrade swore, and ordered the other men back away from the entrance of the alley. The man let his hands fall back to his thigh, but the gun remained pointed in their direction.

"So why did he kill that man?" asked Lestrade, with a glance at the body.

"Self defence," replied Sherlock, absently, not taking his eyes off of the armed man.

"Are you sure?"

"It's clearly a mugging gone wrong. Probably to be expected, given how dim he," Sherlock waved at the body, "was. Imagine robbing a man who had no money."

"And the gun?"

"Not his. He's adjusted his grip twice since we arrived. No, the gun belongs to the dead man."

Lestrade studied the body of the victim again.

"That's not an accidental injury, Sherlock."

"Of course, not. Ex-military. Flashback. Do keep up."

"So you're trying to say that someone just happened to mug a veteran who had a flashback and killed him in self-defence and is now armed and dangerous."

"Not trying to, am."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair as he sighed.

"I should have stayed in bed this morning," he muttered under his breath. He glared at Sherlock as though the situation was Sherlock's fault.

"What now?" asked one of the constables.

"We're unarmed, there's not much we can do but wait for CO19 to arrive."

No one looked very pleased.

"And clear these people out of here," barked Lestrade with a wave at the crowd behind them.

Sherlock glanced back at the soldier. He had taken the opportunity while they were distracted to slide further down the alley. He was kneeling now, holding his weapon at rest.

The wind shifted, carrying the smells from the neighbouring restaurants. The man began to tremble, shifting around as he became more agitated. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, watching. He sniffed the air, again.

"Ah," he said.

The man jerked; he brought the gun up aiming it around him.

Sherlock calculated the distance to the nearest stations adjusting for the rate of flow of traffic for this time of day. He took a few steps closer to Lestrade dropping his voice so that the others wouldn't over hear.

"We're running out of time."

"You think I don't know that!"

"I have an idea."

"I'm listening," said Lestrade looking at him suspiciously.

"I need to speak with him."

"Absolutely not." Lestrade shook his head, backing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. He gritted his teeth.

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know? Maybe because he has a gun and your brother would kill me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, frustrated that Lestrade was being ridiculous. He tried again, spelling it out with simple words so Lestrade would understand.

"He's completely lost touch with reality. I think I can snap him out of it."

Lestrade sighed, staring up into the sky. His body language drooped and Sherlock knew that he had won.

"Go," Lestrade waved down the alley. "Wait."

They stared at each other.

"If you get shot, I'll kill you," he said, finally.

Sherlock adjusted the collar of his shirt, giving a Lestrade a brief smirk. He strode into the alley, slowing as he drew the man's attention. He took slow, steady steps towards the soldier, pretending to ignore how the gun unerringly followed his progress. From up close, it was easier for Sherlock to identify the weapon, a Russian self-defence pistol exported from Germany. The 8mm Baikal was intended to fire rubber bullets or gas, but they were simple to modify which made them popular with London's criminal class. He did note the faint tan lines along the man's wrists that confirmed his earlier deductions.

"Careful," warned Lestrade from the mouth of the alley.

Sherlock threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder but stopped several strides away from the gentleman. He knelt down, pressing his splayed hands against the rough concrete. The man's eyes met his, showing fear and confusion but little awareness. A trickle of blood oozed down his cheek from a tiny cut on his temple.

"Solh."

The man blinked, his head shifting at an angle.

"Yes, I know it's the wrong language, but I don't know any Dari."

The man blinked again and drew in a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth, as though he was going to speak, but then closed it again.

"Yes, I'm English. Most people in London are."

The man managed to look both amused and ashamed as reality finally began registering with him. Sherlock watched in fascination as the man visibly began to pull himself back together. He took deep even breaths that spoke of training in a therapeutic setting. Then he moved his hand, just enough to call attention to the gun-though Sherlock was sure it was more the fact that it wasn't his gun than because he was armed- and everything unravelled.

The soldier moved from his kneeling position to crouch on the balls of his feet in a single smooth shift. Every muscle was taut; Sherlock could almost pluck his tendons. His breathing became elevated. He appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack but while the man was definitely afraid, the mindlessness from earlier did not return. His hands on the gun were steady and his eyes flickered back and forth between Sherlock, the police, and the gun, desperately trying to piece together what was happening. Sherlock was glad that he could no longer see the corpse behind Sherlock or his reaction might have been worse.

Sherlock held his hands up spread in the air.

"Calm down. You're quite safe, more so than I, seeing as you have a gun."

The man focused on Sherlock, his gaze wandering over Sherlock before returning to his face. He must have read something that he liked because he relaxed infinitesimally. He glanced at the gun, his fingers twitching slightly, before looking back at Sherlock.

"I will explain but you must remain calm," warned Sherlock, wishing that there was someone else, who was not an idiot, to handle this task. Sherlock rarely saw the need to be reassuring.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective; I work with the police. I should clarify that I'm here in an unofficial capacity. Well, I say unofficial… It's more happenstance that brought me here today. I'm not actually working your case, too simplistic." Sherlock waved his hand vaguely in the air.

The man was staring at Sherlock with the slightly vacant, surprised expression that people usually wore upon meeting Sherlock for the first time. He blinked a few times and glanced around him, shuddering lightly as the gun caught his attention again.

"Right. You had a panic attack, flashback, one of those psychological things. Thought you were in Afghanistan for a while."

The man's brow furrowed.

"It wasn't your fault," said Sherlock, trying to be reassuring. "You were mugged first. I'm sure it was very traumatic."

The man jerked back staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Don't worry. You dealt with him." Sherlock paused, weighing the risk against the odds of the man having a more violent reaction when he saw the body unprepared. "Permanently."

The soldier glanced quickly towards the police but otherwise showed no reaction to the news that he had killed a man. He had had some experience with killing then.

"Don't worry about charges. Self-defence will be easily proven."

The man closed his eyes, taking deep regulated breaths. Sherlock drummed his fingers along the side of his calf as he waited.

"Do you think you might let me have the gun?"

The man tensed, bringing the weapon back up, the light flashing against Sherlock's face as the sun glinted off the steel. Sherlock stared down the barrel; it never wavered. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade swearing.

"It was merely a suggestion," stated Sherlock calmly. He sat back on his heels. "We'll be crawling with AFOs soon and we all know how trigger happy they can be once they're let out of their cage. You'd think they were Americans."

The man's fingers tensed on the trigger, not pressing, but threatening enough that Sherlock felt the beginnings of worry. His eyes flickered up over Sherlock's shoulders to the rooftop behind him. He held the gaze just long enough for Sherlock to get the message and then focused back on Sherlock's face. Sherlock turned slowly, scanning above him, catching the brief reflection of light.

"Mycroft," muttered Sherlock, bitterly. He turned back to the soldier who was watching him for an explanation.

"I'm impressed," said Sherlock. "Not many would have spotted him. He's not my doing, I'm afraid, nor the Met's, though possibly the MDP. An unfortunate hazard of one's over-protective, meddling brother being the British Government; his response time is significantly faster than an ARV. Still, you're in no more danger than I am. Have you changed your mind about the gun yet?"

Sherlock gave a close-lipped smile that quickly changed into a frown.

"You can't, can you?" He watched the soldier, carefully. "You're not being stubborn at all. You're using the gun to hold yourself together."

The soldier's shoulders shifted, and his hold on the gun relaxed slightly. A hint of relief mixed with the ever present fear in the man's eyes. Sherlock thought rapidly.

"What about the bullets?" he asked, gently. "Do you think you could give me the bullets?"

The man cocked his head to the side, considering.

"Please," said Sherlock, uncharacteristically obsequious. "I wasn't joking about the situation becoming very tense soon."

The man nodded once, a brief twitch of his head. He shifted slightly, so that his movements were hidden from the police by Sherlock's body and the sniper's only shot would be through Sherlock's head. He took a deep breath. His fingers moved rapidly to engage the safety and eject all of the bullets. He held out a trembling hand. Sherlock cupped one of his palms, their fingers brushing as the bullets dropped down into his hand.

"Thank you."

The man shook and he clutched the gun to his chest. His fingers rhythmically closed around the brown handle of the Baikal. His breath came in quick pants.

"Shh, you're safe. You're here in London, and I'm going to clear up this misunderstanding, you're safe."

Sherlock waited until the man was calmer before he stood and backed towards the police.

"Here," he said, thrusting the bullets at Lestrade, making sure that Mycroft's man had a clear view. "Do ensure that no one shoots an unarmed man."

Lestrade grabbed his arm as Sherlock moved to return to the man.

"What do you think you're doing?" hissed Lestrade, leaning in so close that Sherlock could feel his breath on his neck.

"Defusing your situation," replied Sherlock as he removed Lestrade's hands from his person with a disdainful flick.

"You could have been killed."

"I wasn't."

"You can't just recklessly risk yourself like that. This isn't one of your cases and you don't actually work for the Yard."

"Are we finished?" asked Sherlock, impatiently. He glanced over Lestrade's shoulder at the man, watching his hand that was still clutching the gun begin to tremble.

"No, we're not finished! I want to know exactly what kind of game you are trying to play."

"I don't have time for this. He is getting antsy."

"Exactly. And since when do you care about such trivial details?"

Sherlock took a step away drawing himself up to his full height.

"You people really should make up your minds," he said, coldly. "You keep bleating at me about respecting people's emotions, but when I do, you're not happy with that either."

"Sherlock, I-"

He ignored Lestrade's protestations, stalking briskly across the small alley. Half way to the man, he stopped abruptly, forcing himself into a calmer pace that would not alarm the soldier.

The man watched Sherlock silently. Sherlock wondered what he saw. The man was perched on a proverbial tightrope, yet he still allowed Sherlock close. In fact, he seemed almost relieved that Sherlock had returned. As Sherlock stood in front of him, he settled back against the brick wall, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest. He glanced to his right and shifted slightly to his left.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, softly, taking it as an invitation. He gingerly placed himself next to the soldier, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Sherlock twitched his toes in his shoes, wondering what to do next.

They sat in oddly companionable silence.

"So…shall we talk about the weather?"

Sherlock could feel the man twitch beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the man tilt his head back and stare up into the sky. His shoulders began to shake. Sherlock turned to him, askance, but the man wasn't upset; he was laughing.

The absurdity struck Sherlock. He brought a fist up to his mouth, biting his lip to keep himself under control. It was completely inappropriate, even he could see that, and Lestrade would be appalled, but Sherlock began to giggle.

Sherlock felt the tinges of embarrassment across his cheeks as the two sat there still breathing unevenly from the faded hilarity. He knew that the police were staring at them; well, staring more because they were under constant observation. The other man reached out and patted Sherlock on the knee. They glanced at each other, quickly smothering grins.

"You are a very singular individual," said Sherlock. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed in the presence of another living being.

The man didn't seem offended.

His phone dinged.

[The AFO is willing to let this play out. We're still waiting for the ambulance. Try to get his name, an emergency contact, any information. ]

Sherlock rolled his eyes and locked his phone. The man watched him shove the mobile back into his pocket.

"They want to know your name."

He looked at Sherlock for a second before letting his gaze drift slowly towards the street where the mass of police officers were gathered. He glanced down at the gun still clutched in his hand and sighed, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head.

"Not a chance," said Sherlock.

The man's head jerked up and he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock felt a brief spike of glee; he always enjoyed shocking people.

"You were contemplating the possibility of someone simply allowing you to go home."

The man's lips twitched into a thin smile.

"I don't know what the exact protocol is for a case like this. I presume that eventually one of those idiots will figure out that you have a therapist and demand his or her name." Sherlock scoffed and then continued, exasperated because the man was staring at him again. "Of course, you have a therapist."

When the soldier's eyes shifted quickly towards the police officers, Sherlock realized that he had slightly misinterpreted the man's expression.

"You forget that I work with them. There is no exaggerating their incompetence."

The man looked around the alley, his gaze stuttering over the dead body, taking an inventory of everyone's location. He glanced back at Sherlock, seeming to make a decision. He scooted, fraying the hem of his trousers as they dragged along the rough ground. Sherlock moved, turning away from the wall to place his back to the police so that he was facing the man. The man waited and adjusted his position again. When he was obscured by Sherlock's body, he twisted onto his hip and reached around behind him, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. He handed the phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock activated the touch screen: a message was already open.

[ My apologies, but I do not speak.

Please do not be alarmed. I am having a panic attack. You do not need to contact anyone. I will be fine. If possible, allow me to rest somewhere quiet and please, do not touch me.

My thanks, John Watson ]

The message was very formal, definitely written by the therapist. He'd shown someone the message recently because it was still on the screen. Sherlock looked at the man- no, John Watson- with new respect and understanding. He had already had one public panic attack that day only to be mugged before he could properly recover; it was no wonder the poor man was in this state.

"John Watson," he said, holding out his hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Sherlock Holmes, but please, call me Sherlock."

John Watson seemed bemused and hesitant, but he reached out and shook Sherlock's hand with a warm, firm grip.

"May I call you John?"

John stared at him, silently. Sherlock brushed absently at his lap.

"Yes, well, I shall call you John until you protest."

Sherlock nodded, considering the matter settled. John still stared at Sherlock but this time his eyebrows were too inches higher on his brow.

Sherlock turned his attention back to John's phone. There were two personalized widgets on the phone in addition to the preloaded applications. He tapped on the first, confirming that it was the message he had just read. The second was named In Case of Emergency.

[ The owner of this phone is John Watson, a veteran who suffers from progressive mutism and post-traumatic stress disorder that presents with periods of disorientation and acute panic attacks. If he appears to be in distress, guide him to a quiet area with ample privacy and personal space. Contact Ella Thompson before initiating any further intervention. ]

Underneath, Ella Thompson's full credentials and contact information were listed. Sherlock wrinkled his lip, contacting her would be worse than useless, but Lestrade wouldn't see it that way. Reluctantly, he fished his phone out of his pocket.

[ Contact Detective Inspector Lestrade regarding John Watson upon receipt of this message.]

Sherlock added Lestrade's phone number and pressed send. He quickly composed an additional message with the information that he had learned. There, let Lestrade deal with her.

Sherlock continued to fiddle with John's phone scrolling through the text history. Dull, dull, dull. Nothing but messages from his brother Harry warning to expect a visit, appointment reminders from the therapist, and the occasional request for milk from someone named George. There wasn't a single outgoing text, odd that, not what he would expect from a man with selective mutism.

"So how does a mute speak?" asked Sherlock as he shoved the phone into his jacket pocket next to his own. He could see the muscles of John's shoulder bunching together and he wouldn't look at Sherlock. Touchy subject.

"Notes? BSL? Morse code?" Nothing, just John staring at the ground blankly.

"Ooh, I know," he said sarcastically. "Charades!"

John became ice, stone, an impervious statue that gave nothing away. The response was intriguing. Sherlock replayed their interactions in his head.

"Or perhaps, nothing," he said softly. He leaned forward, pressing closer to tilt his head and look up into John's eyes. "That's it, isn't it? You say nothing at all, ever, in any way."

John closed his eyes.

"Well," said Sherlock, shifting back to his former position. "I'm sure your therapist was thrilled to be assigned your case. Think of the time she saves."

There was a brief flicker of amusement hidden within the otherwise utterly impassive mask.

"Still, that's a bit severe: no communication at all. You're lucky you have such an expressive face."

John opened a single eye, looking at him clearly exasperated. Sherlock just shrugged.

"You're not panicking," he pointed out.

John held out a single shaking hand with his palm spread.

"Much," acceded Sherlock, feeling amused. John was very witty for a man with nothing to say. "You're not panicking much."

They waited in silence. Sherlock could feel the seconds slipping away with the lengthening shadows. He knew the calm could not last; they could not sit here forever. John felt the same, judging by his ever more frequent glances towards the police.

Sherlock's phone rang. They both startled, exchanging sheepish glances with each other.

Sherlock turned his head towards the street. Lestrade stood in the street with his phone pressed to his right ear, facing the oncoming traffic. The image was rose tinted from the late afternoon sun. Lestrade seemed concerned- Sherlock peeked at John- rightfully, so.

John was watching Sherlock's ringing pocket. His brow wrinkled.

"I prefer to text," said Sherlock, airily. Once the phone fell silent, he began to type.

[Keep the ambulance out of sight. I am uncertain of John's reaction. -SH]

John observed him suspiciously.

Sherlock tried to smile at him reassuringly.

John's eyes narrowed; suspicion not averted.

[Are you in danger?]

[No. -SH]

Sherlock hesitated but John's growing restlessness could not be ignored.

[But you might be. – SH]

The response was immediate.

[I want you back here now.]

[I'm not joking, Sherlock.]

[I will revoke your crime scene access.]

"They want to speak with me," said Sherlock apologetically.

John froze, a look of terror crossing his face. His right hand darted out to clinch Sherlock's sleeve. He stared at Sherlock, pleadingly.

"Okay," said Sherlock, gently. "I'll stay."

John rocked back. He bit his lip, blinking rapidly.

Sherlock rang Lestrade, pressing his phone against his cheek. He answered immediately.

"So sorry, Lestrade," said Sherlock, blithely. "But it appears I'm being held hostage."

He raised his arm with John's fist still twisted in the fabric.

Lestrade had a few choice words to indicate his distinct lack of amusement. He shared them while pacing and glaring at Sherlock from the mouth of the alley. The man beside him stood stiffly in full uniform and body armour, with his arms crossed in a much more official show of disapproval.

"You can't say things like that, Sherlock," admonished Lestrade once he finally wore down. "Ingleson is fully prepared to shoot Mr. Watson to ensure your safety."

"Overkill, as always," replied Sherlock. "What is your plan? I presume you do have one."

"He's not currently being charged with any crime, but he's not safe to leave on the streets. They'll take him to King's until he can be released into the care of his therapist or another guardian."

"That's an awful plan."

"You'd prefer we arrested him?"

Sherlock huffed and hung up on Lestrade.

"Morons," he muttered.

John barely noticed. He was watching the police, who were being stupidly obvious in their preparations, with growing apprehension.

"They're not going to hurt you," said Sherlock, not really believing it.

John ignored him.

Sherlock pulled at his hair, feeling frustrated and trapped. He didn't have another answer to give Lestrade; he just knew this plan was going to end badly and John was the one who would suffer. Sherlock closed his eyes and watched the possibilities unfold: John hurting himself trying to get away, the police hurting John trying to subdue him, John hurting an officer and the police extracting their vengeance, John being arrested and locked away…

Sherlock shook his head; this wasn't helping. He needed alternatives. He tried to remember everything he knew about the Mental Health Act but it had rarely been important so the details were faded and filed away. He didn't have time to think properly.

Someone shouted. Sherlock's head snapped up, sending a twinge down his neck, as he refocused on his surroundings.

John was poised on edge, like a bird-dog that has spotted its prey, completely focused on the pair of paramedics loitering by the armed response vehicle, their green uniforms standing out amongst the bright yellow jackets of the PCs. Sherlock could see fine tremors rippling down the muscles of John's arms.

Lestrade was on the phone again but he didn't look happy. Ingleson was watching the conversation intently as he dispersed orders to the rotation of men who appeared and disappeared from his side. Sherlock wished he could have been present for Ingleson's arrival; it was difficult to read a man when he was only seen from a distance. Lestrade raised his head, looking across at Ingleson; he deliberately shook his head.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. Ingleson made a gesture with his left hand and his men fell into formation. Lestrade stared at Sherlock, mouthing something that was indistinct from this distance. Sherlock shook his head, not caring what Lestrade wanted. From the corner of his eye, he could see John shift as the officers began to move towards their position.

John stood. He had the loose stance of a trained fighter but the toss of his head hinted at something less refined. The gun lay discarded at his feet. He wasn't a large man, but he looked powerful and dangerous, fully capable of administering severe damage with his bare hands.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey," he said, trying to catch John's attention, but the man was too focused on the advancing officers. "Hey, no."

"Look at me." He reached out and grasped John's jaw, forcefully turning his head until Sherlock could look into his eyes. Madness stared back, a mixture of fear, anger, and deep, burning resolve. John Watson was not going to go quietly. Sherlock met his gaze, unmoved. "I will handle this."

Strong fingers came up gripping his wrists painfully; Sherlock never flinched.

"I will not let them take you away."

John let his fingers slip away, still tense, still wary, but giving Sherlock his trust. Sherlock felt light-headed. No one had ever given themselves to Sherlock like this man just had. Sherlock steeled his shoulders and jerked his jacket back into place. He glared at the assembled authorities, calculating how to bow them to his will; John Watson was depending on him to win his freedom. He stalked forward and for a brief, heady moment, Sherlock felt like he was marching into battle.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you trying to get someone killed?" shouted Sherlock, as he approached the police who were moving to surround John.

They halted.

One of the officers opened his mouth.

"Don't speak," snapped Sherlock, sending him a glare. "I'm in no mood to listen to your idiocy."

"Sir," began another officer. He eyed John nervously behind Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock held up one hand, fixing his eyes intently on the man.

"Where's your superior?" He could see Ingleson approaching rapidly. Sherlock took a step back and smiled politely. "Ah, Ingleson, you complete and utter imbecile, I'd like a word."

"Mr. Holmes," greeted Ingleson, coldly. His voice rattled in his chest like a tin of nails. Another gesture of his hand allowed his men to relax.

"Sherlock," said Lestrade, out of breath, as he jogged up to the two men.

"Lestrade." Sherlock glanced at the phone still clutched in Lestrade's hand. "How is Ms. Thompson?"

"Out of town," replied Lestrade with a grimace.

"Unfortunate timing. Did she have any suggestions?"

Lestrade closed his eyes; beside him, Ingleson looked impatient, or possibly constipated.

"Mr. Watson has a phobia of being in hospital," said Lestrade. "He won't go willingly."

Sherlock glanced behind him at John, feeling a flutter in his chest.

"So you're going to force him?" asked Sherlock making no effort to hide his distaste.

"We could take him to the station instead, if you think he'd go."

Sherlock shook his head regretfully.

"I don't see another option, Sherlock."

"We should just shoot him," muttered Ingleson. Lestrade and Sherlock both glared at him; he looked away.

"You do realize that you're talking about a man who dedicated his life to protecting our country," said Sherlock, acerbically. The other men around them shifted uneasily.

Sherlock tilted his head, hearing the word "station" echo in his head, teasing at his memory. He began to pace, thinking rapidly. He stopped abruptly turning to face Lestrade.

"A place of safety can be a friend, correct?" asked Sherlock slowly.

"It's unusual, but, yes." Then Lestrade shook his head. "But Sherlock, we've already eliminated everyone Mr. Watson knows. None of them are suitable."

"He could stay with me," suggested Sherlock, feeling hopeful for the first time. The mental image of John with him in 221B filled him with warmth; he wanted to make this happen. "I could be his friend."

"You don't even know the man," protested Ingleson.

"He trusts me," said Sherlock, not looking away from Lestrade. "I've never… Please, I could be his friend."

Lestrade looked dumbfounded, staring at Sherlock as though he were seeing him for the first time.

"I-" He shook his head, glancing at Ingleson who glared mulishly. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but okay. If you can get Mr. Watson to agree peacefully and calmly, he can go home with you."

"Yes!" Sherlock twirled around, leaping lightly into the air.

"Not so fast," said Lestrade, reaching out to trap Sherlock's arm. "I think it's time you introduced me to your new beau."

Sherlock scowled, annoyed with Lestrade's teasing.

Turning away but lingering long enough for Lestrade to fall into place by his side, Sherlock pasted a smile upon his face that became more real the closer he drew to John. John had retreated further down the alley where he waited tense and watchful. His eyes never left Sherlock as he approached, not even to examine his companion.

"John," said Sherlock, stopping an arm's length away from him.

The single word was all that was necessary for John to relax. All of the air left his body in a great rush. With one hand, he massaged the back of his neck while he shoved the other into his pocket to hide the faint trembling that would not abate. John smiled stupidly at Sherlock.

"Yes, well." Sherlock shuffled his feet slightly in embarrassment. "I did tell you that I would take care of things."

Lestrade cleared his throat. They both turned to him to find him watching with far too much amusement – the bastard. Sherlock struggled to portray his usual detachment; a quick look towards John found a similar blankness, though his was more wary. Lestrade looked uncomfortable momentarily before he gave Sherlock a pointed glare.

Right, he wanted introductions.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade," said Sherlock, taking a step closer to John. "Within the Yard, he is without peer. He is one of the few who are willing to admit when they are out of their depths and on occasion, very nearly approaches competence."

Lestrade blinked, his brow creasing as he eyed Sherlock disbelievingly. Sherlock smiled blandly, a mere twitch of his lips, which seemed to reassure Lestrade because he turned back to John.

"Gregory Lestrade," he said, holding out his hand.

John stared at it for a long, very awkward moment. His eyes flickered from the hand to Sherlock to the equipment attached at Lestrade's belt and back to the hand. John reached out and gave the hand a quick shake, taking a step closer to Sherlock as he retreated until they were close enough to share body heat but still not touching. Sherlock found the sensation peculiar- he wasn't a stranger to physical contact but it was usually done at his initiative with his focus firmly on external observations; people rarely invaded his personal space.

"I just wanted to let you know that I've spoken with your therapist. She'll be here with you tomorrow when we cover all of the legal details."

John stayed absolutely still.

"I believe Sherlock had something to ask you," said Lestrade waving his arm at Sherlock, accompanied by another pointed look.

"How do you feel about the violin?" asked Sherlock, turning to face John more directly. "I frequently play in the middle of the night or whenever the mood strikes. I find it helps me think. I don't play every night, of course, so it might not be an issue but I prefer to inform you in advance. Well?"

John looked bewildered while Lestrade looked exasperated.

"That's not what you're supposed to be asking."

"It's not?" Sherlock was confused. Shouldn't flatmates, even temporary ones, know the worst of each other? Ignoring Lestrade, he continued to John. "Normally I'd warn you that sometimes I don't speak for days but we're quite complimentarily matched there."

Sherlock smiled but it faded into a frown when he noticed how lost John seemed like he wasn't quite tracking the conversation properly.

Lestrade let out a loud sigh.

"You're supposed to be asking him if he would like to go home with you, instead of to hospital."

"Of course, he wants to," said Sherlock raising his voice. Lestrade was being stupid, but John was just standing there so very still, and… Sherlock froze, suddenly afraid that he had misread everything. "Don't you?"

John looked frightened as he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Oh," said Sherlock, feeling hurt. He held himself stiffly as he tried to move away.

John's hand darted out and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, at this rate his jacket was going to be hopelessly wrinkled.

"I think that's a yes," said Lestrade, sounding suspiciously gentle.

Sherlock looked at John.

"Oh," said Sherlock again, as his perspective flipped. He let John settle back against his side.

"You should probably be terrified," said Lestrade ruefully. "He nearly burned down his last place, but given the situation, I doubt one night would harm you."

John was staring at Sherlock, thoughtfully; Sherlock wondered what he saw, something told him that John saw more than people normally would.

Lestrade brushed off his suit and checked his watch.

"Let's get you checked out by the paramedics so you can go home with Sherlock."

John went rigid. He stood frozen for a long paralyzing moment before his hands clinched into fists that curled up against his chest. He began turning red as he wheezed and coughed as though choking past something lodged in his throat.

Lestrade stared at John with equal parts pity and discomfort.

"So it's not just hospitals."

Sherlock threw him an impatient glare as he gently lowered John into a seated position. He rubbed John's back, whispering in his ear.

"Just breathe. You're fine. You're safe."

John's breathing slowly calmed although it remained irregular. He did not open his eyes.

"John has had a very rough day," said Sherlock, his tone suggesting no arguments. "His tolerance for strangers is not at its best."

Lestrade raised his hands in surrender but didn't bother to apologize. He was smart enough to know that neither would appreciate it.

"I'll just go speak with the paramedics," he said, leaving the two of them alone.

They sat in silence. John was motionless.

As if it belonged to someone else, Sherlock found his hand reaching over to comb through John's hair. His hair was soft, minutely coarser where the blond was fading to grey, and damp with sweat. It released a floral scent when it moved, different from the minty or medicinal smells that Sherlock would have expected. Did someone else pick John's shampoo or did he shop products by discount?

John raised his head, looking at him with surprise.

Sherlock let his hand fall back to rest against his hip but John didn't seem unduly perturbed by the presumptive gesture. John rested his head on his knee. His eyes were tired and old, defeated.

"We'll get you home," whispered Sherlock. John merely sighed.

They watched as the scene of crime officers were finally allowed into the alley now that John was no longer an issue. They moved cautiously as they processed the scene, casting frequent nervous glances in their direction. Ingleson was gone, replaced with another Detective Inspector who was currently speaking with Lestrade and paramedics. The two shook hands.

Lestrade jogged back to their position.

"They've agreed to forgo the examination but they want to give you something to relax on the way home," said Lestrade, with a nod towards the paramedics hovering around the ambulance.

John recoiled, shrinking away from him.

"So that's a no," said Sherlock. There was no way that John would be able to tolerate their medical attention, but he agreed that John needed some type of chemical help if they were going to make the trip across London without John panicking. "Would you," began Sherlock hesitantly, "would you let me give you the injection?"

John froze, thinking, before slowly relaxing. He looked up at Sherlock with a blank expression on his face.

"Right." Sherlock sighed. "Give me a moment."

"I'll walk with you," said Lestrade, quickly.

Sherlock patted John on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. Lestrade walked by his side towards the ambulance, leaning in closer so that no one would eavesdrop.

"If he's this volatile over a sedative," began Lestrade, "How safe is he going to be in your flat?"

"I can handle him."

"Not if he panics."

Sherlock gave him an impatient look.

"He's done nothing but panic since we've been here. I can handle him. We'll be fine."

"Look, I can see why you like the bloke," said Lestrade, shoving his hands in his pockets with a frustrated sigh. "But I can't forget that we have a dead man lying feet away from us that he put there."

Sherlock paused, turning towards the body, silently watching a SOCO photograph blood splatter. Finally, he nodded, conceding that Lestrade had a valid concern, flawed though it was.

"John Watson is not a danger to me, and if you really believed that he was, he'd be in restraints right now. I will, however, be mindful of his difficulties."

"Thank you."

Sherlock knew better than to hope that Lestrade would finally stop talking so he quickened his steps, eager to reach the paramedics before Lestrade could pursue further conversation. He slipped into the role of a concerned friend as he greeted the two, pushing down the observations that threatened to bubble out. He heard them give their names but deleted them immediately, no need to waste even short term memory.

"Mr. Watson has agreed to a sedative. Unfortunately, the same circumstances that prevent him from being examined make him hesitant about receiving medication from a stranger."

The female paramedic stepped closer to him; she looked a bit like Molly only older with curly hair. He smiled at her, catering to her sympathetic response. The other paramedic- short, fat, mouth-breather- looked bored.

"I was hoping, given that I have some training, that you would permit me to administer the injection."

Sherlock did his best to look trustworthy and winsome.

"Oh," said the woman, drawing a hand up to her mouth. She took a step back and glanced at her partner.

Sherlock stifled a sigh, frustrated that the one most likely to give in to his request was also the one most likely to deny it because it went against regulations.

"Your request is highly irregular," said the man; he had pushed himself forward eyeing Sherlock's pockets with undisguised greed.

Sherlock fingered his wallet, thoughtfully. He wasn't opposed to bribes, though he preferred favours.

"There's a cab in route," said Lestrade, sliding into the conversation, ending any potential transaction.

Sherlock didn't mind the interruption. The woman, now eyeing her partner warily, suddenly seemed much more receptive.

"Did you approve of his request, Detective Inspector?" she asked.

"I did," replied Lestrade, giving her one of those grins that always made women smile. "We're not trying to step on anyone's toes, but Sherlock does have experience."

Only Sherlock noticed the grimace that followed that statement.

"And the Met will assume full responsibility?" she asked shrewdly.

"I promise." Lestrade's trustworthy look was much better than Sherlock's. He blamed the badge which is why he so frequently borrowed it.

"Then I will allow it," she said. "Give me a second to gather the supplies."

Her partner looked disgruntled but she silenced him with a look.

She climbed into the back of the ambulance and began opening drawers. She collected a small pile of items, folding them all up in a disposable furniture protector; the syringe she kept separate. As she placed the package and syringe into his hands, she kept up a steady litany of instructions, none of which he needed and were therefore completely ignored.

"Thank you," he said, once she finally fell silent.

He debated telling the woman of her partner's inappropriate interest in the pregnancy that she was trying to hide behind a breaking button but his desire to return to John kept him silent. Sherlock gave them both a polite smile and a tip of his head, tucking the medical supplies under his arm.

"That was tedious," said Sherlock, as he once again knelt down before John. "You owe me."

He unfolded the disposable furniture protector upon the ground, smiling at the sight. In addition to the requested supplies, the paramedic had included sufficient wound wash, gauze, plasters, and tape to attend to John's minor scrapes and cuts. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves with a snap.

"First aid before or after?" asked Sherlock.

John held out his right arm.

Sherlock folded back John's sleeve, positioning his hand in Sherlock's lap. He carefully tied the tourniquet around the bicep and wiped the skin with alcohol. He could feel the blood vessels with his thumb so he knew he would not have difficulty administering the injection but it was odd working from this angle.

John made a soft gasp- not so much a sound, just the air catching in his throat. Sherlock glanced up from where he was positioning the needle, but John's gaze was focused on the crook of Sherlock's elbow. Sherlock ran a finger down the sleeve of his jacket, pushing away dark memories.

"Yes," said Sherlock softly. John turned his head to watch Sherlock with sad blue eyes. "It was quite some time ago. I'm clean now."

John gave a shaky smile.

Sherlock used the distraction to slide the needle home. John tensed at the prick. Sherlock rubbed his thumb in circles against John's forearm as he fed the medication through the needle. Pulling out the syringe and capping it, Sherlock depressed his thumb against the injection site. John watched him calmly as the application of a plaster completed the procedure.

"There," said Sherlock, feeling pleased with his work. "Who needs a medical degree?"

He glanced up at John, expecting to see him smile, but instead he seemed pensive and a bit sad. Sherlock filed the observation away. Squirting cetrimide on a gauze pad, Sherlock began to gently wash John's face. The cut began to bleed again as the dried blood was removed, but John remained still, passively allowing Sherlock to continue his ministrations. Sherlock placed a plaster over the injury which gave John a roguish appearance.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

John stared blankly, his eyes drifting to focus on the wall over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock sighed. He wet another gauze pad and pressed it into John's hand. He waited to see what John would do.

John glanced at Sherlock, his expression revealing nothing. He lifted up the edge of his shirt, still loose from his trousers, revealing an abrasion on his abdomen. John pressed the gauze to the wound gingerly, his face contorting into a grimace. He handed the soiled cloth back to Sherlock.

Sherlock gathered the rubbish into the palm of his hand so that as he removed his glove it remained bagged in the now inside-out glove. He repeated the process with the other glove as he rose to his feet.

"I just need to dispose of these," he told John.

John blinked at him sleepily, as the medication began to take effect. He didn't even seem to notice that Sherlock had gone and returned.

"Let's get you out of here," said Sherlock. He reached down and grabbed John's hand helping him to his feet and then tugging him towards the waiting taxi.

John stopped; he looked down at their joined hands with a bemused expression. He looked back up at Sherlock.

"Is this not what people do to offer comfort?" asked Sherlock. A multitude of images of people holding hands flickered through his mind. "It seems to work for mothers and crying children."

John looked distinctly unimpressed with the comparison.

"Fine!" He released John's hand, since it obviously bothered him so much. Sherlock would very much like to cross his arms and pout but he settled instead for simply taking a small step away from John.

Fingers brushed against Sherlock's wrist. He looked down and watched as John slowly took his hand. This time John was the one to give a light tug in the direction of the waiting taxi. Sherlock smiled, manoeuvring so that he could lead the way.

They separated in the cab, sitting across from each other.

"Baker Street," he told the driver.

John sat prim and proper with his back rim-rod straight and his hands folded in his lap. He was the picture of polite alertness, but his wide, exaggerated blinks betrayed the sedative's influence.

"You may rest, if you would like," offered Sherlock, knowing that traffic would make their journey long.

John turned his head away, watching the buildings pass slowly.

Sherlock was reminded that despite the day's events, they were still strangers to each other, so he observed and learned, filing away the bits of John Watson. The ride across town wasn't long at all.

John was both hesitant to leave the taxi and relieved to escape; a fascinating contradiction. Still, Sherlock was glad to see the new surroundings revive the man. He had come to expect a certain degree of fortitude from John that the melancholy watcher in the taxi had lacked, but perhaps it had merely been the drugs subduing him.

Sherlock threw some money at the cab driver and hurried across the pavement. John was staring up at the building, his expression obscured by the darkening twilight.

"Welcome to 221B Baker Street," said Sherlock with a flourish. He threw the door open with a loud bang.

"Mrs. Hudson, I've brought home a visitor," shouted Sherlock.

She opened the door to her flat, peering out curiously.

"This is John Watson," stated Sherlock, almost proudly. "He's a decorated war veteran with PTSD so please don't upset him."

"Sherlock! Really!" She swatted him in the arm before moving closer to take a gander at Sherlock's new friend.

The afore-mentioned John Watson was shuffling nervously by the stairs. He held a hand out to her in greeting. She clasped his hand, leaning in close.

"He hasn't kidnapped you, has he?" she whispered loudly.

"Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed Sherlock, sounding scandalized while John grinned.

"Show your guest in, Sherlock. I'll bring up the tea, since I doubt your cups are safe."

"That was Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, in a fond tone, as she disappeared back into her kitchen. "She's my landlady, but she's infinitely more tolerable than most."

Sherlock mounted the stairs in his customarily rapid fashion, taking the steps in pairs. John lingered behind, climbing slowly. He trailed the palm of his hand along the ancient wallpaper. He appeared calm and introspective so Sherlock patiently allowed him to take his time.

"Welcome to my home," said Sherlock, feeling unexpectedly anxious.

John looked around him, humming faintly, the first sound Sherlock had heard him make. Sherlock peered at the room, trying to see it as John might be seeing it. People frequently referred to his collections of belongings as clutter, but he had difficulty living in any other manner. Each item in the room was useful and important; things he might need to use or reference at a second's notice, which he couldn't do if they were shut away in drawers.

John wandered the room slowly, smiling softly as he fingered the skull. He never even questioned its presence. Sherlock relaxed the more John seemed to approve.

When Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a tray of tea and biscuits, she found John seated comfortably in the dusty red chair. His head was tipped back, almost as though he had been sleeping, but his eyes opened as he heard her approach. Sherlock was sprawled haphazardly across the couch in his usual indolent manner, watching John discretely.

John pushed his hands against the arms of the chair, levering himself into an upright position.

"No, no, dear, don't get up," said Mrs. Hudson, but John's eyes were focused on the tea tray.

Sherlock quickly crossed the room, taking the tray from Mrs. Hudson before John could and placing it on the table, swiping a biscuit as he did so. He pulled out a chair for Mrs. Hudson and then took his seat across from John. Their new arrangement was surprisingly domestic, which accounted for why Mrs. Hudson looked so pleased with herself, but Sherlock found that he did not mind.

"It's lovely to see Sherlock bringing someone home. I do worry that he'll get lonely up here," said Mrs. Hudson, handing out the mugs. "I would ask how you two met, but knowing Sherlock, it's probably best not to pry."

John smiled but his eyes were unfocused as he stared at his tea. He took a sip, lifting the mug in her direction in a display of appreciation. Mrs. Hudson really did make the best tea.

"Have another biscuit, dear. You're losing weight again."

Sherlock stared down at the plate that had been shoved under his nose. The sweet, buttery taste from the first biscuit still lingered on his tongue, and he had no desire for another, but Mrs. Hudson was watching him hopefully and John's eyes were suddenly hawk-like, assessing. Sherlock forced down the smallest biscuit, washing it away with two hot gulps; they both seemed satisfied.

"There's another bedroom upstairs," she told John, when she couldn't take the silence a second longer- normal people did seem to find it unnerving, "if you'll be needing it."

She looked between the two men, uncertainly. John's face paled and he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Relax. I have no intention of molesting your personage."

Sherlock watched in amusement as John's face flushed. The colour started at the base of his neck and slowly rose until the tips of his ears were red.

"Right then. I'll go give the bedding an airing," she said, gathering up the remnants of tea. She turned towards John. "Sherlock's a good lad, but he's not very mindful of the cleaning."

"My sleeping quarters are perfectly pristine," objected Sherlock.

John bent at the waist, leaning down to examine the pile of periodicals perched next to his chair. He looked up at Sherlock with a brief smirk.

"There will be none of that from you, Mr. Watson," said Sherlock sternly, but he could not help smiling as he said it. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson's laughter as she moved up the stairs.

"I suppose now that you're full of tea; it would be a bad time to ask if you desired supper."

John spread his hand on his belly rubbing it languidly.

"I will ask again in an hour," said Sherlock, noting signs of recent weight loss. He remembered rolling up the arm of John's shirt; there was a peculiar discolouration that only came from cold eggs. "Most people eat constantly and you barely touched your breakfast."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It was obvious from the stain on your sleeve."

John lifted his arm, peering intently at his sleeve. He glanced at Sherlock somewhat dubiously, looked at the stain again, and then sat back in his chair. He made a gesture in the air, almost like a one-armed shrug.

"You believe me?" asked Sherlock, stunned. Anyone else would have been accusing him of fabricating details.

John's gaze flitted quickly around the flat before lingering steadily on Sherlock.

"And you don't mind?"

John smiled at Sherlock. His eyes were filled with emotions that Sherlock could not read, but they did express how very much John did not mind.

Something inside Sherlock trembled. He did not really know what he was feeling but it was…it was something good; he didn't want this feeling to end.

Suddenly, John shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable and vaguely distressed. His legs pressed closer together.

"Through the kitchen to the left," instructed Sherlock.

John gave him a grateful glance as he hurried out of the room.

While John was occupied, Sherlock rummaged through his wardrobe searching for clothes that might fit John. Finally, he selected a pair of loose grey sweat pants and a soft, white cotton tee that should stretch enough to adjust to the different contours of John's body, although they would still be long. Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, Sherlock timed it perfectly so that he was standing in front of the door to the bathroom when John opened it.

He blinked in surprise, taking a step back.

"I thought you might like a shower," explained Sherlock, holding out his armful.

John blinked again. He reached out slowly, taking the offered items carefully. He took two steps backwards, again moving very slowly, and then shut the door in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock waited for the sound of water to spin away, striding into the kitchen to check on his latest mould culture.

John emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam with his clothes balled in his hands. He smelled cleanly of Sherlock's soap. His hair, spiked from the water, still had droplets clinging to the tips. His bare feet padded softly on the flooring, with his ankles hugged by the rolls of excess fabric. Sherlock snickered silently at the too large clothing.

John crossed his arms, glaring at Sherlock from across the kitchen, somehow aware of what Sherlock had been thinking. Sherlock was delighted that his new (friend?) acquaintance wasn't as blind as the masses.

"Very good, John," said Sherlock, approvingly.

John's brow wrinkled. He shook his head, looking away from Sherlock.

He stepped into the kitchen, pausing as he noticed the make-shift laboratory. He moved towards the table, leaning over to inspect the equipment, glancing at Sherlock for permission as he did so. Sherlock waved him forward, curious to see what he would do. John's hand ghosted over several of the items but never made contact. He flipped through the notebook filled with Sherlock's notations; his forehead creasing with concentration as he read. He seemed impressed as he closed the cover.

That lasted until John opened the refrigerator; it seemed that John had very strong feelings about the proper storage of human remains. He was mildly disapproving about the pig livers cooling on the top shelf- something to do with sanitation if his glances at the sink were to be believed, as though Sherlock ever actually used the space for food- but was offended by the human hand stuffed in the vegetable tray. John physically recoiled, spinning around to glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, watching John with intense interest. He did not understand why John was so angry at the presence of the hand. It wasn't squeamishness. He didn't find it freakish. Then John closed the tray with such respect and regret that Sherlock felt he almost had the answer, but it was lost with John retreating from the room. Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and stalked after him.

John was framed by the window, staring out at the night. His hands were spread, pressed against the glass, stretching the t-shirt tight across his shoulders. Sherlock could see the lines of the latissimi dorsi and the bulge of the trapezius through the thin fabric. When John faced the room again, his anger had faded leaving him looking tired.

"Do you like curry?" asked Sherlock, in a subdued voice, looking for something to distract John from the upset. Caring about someone else's opinion was turning out to be more work than Sherlock had anticipated.

John's eyes shifted towards Sherlock, disinterestedly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Discarding his suggestion, he phoned Angelo's asking him for a take away meal for two, his choice. Angelo was predictably delighted at the prospect of feeding Sherlock- and a companion!

Sherlock made a note that Angelo was never to meet Mrs. Hudson; he wasn't sure he would be able to survive their inevitable collusion.

He tossed his phone on his desk, turning to find John watching him. Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, standing there uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze. John's expression softened and the tension that had been hanging in the air faded away. Sherlock felt like he could breathe again.

John turned his attention to the bookcases. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, asking for permission.

"Feel free," said Sherlock. He spread his arm to encompass the whole flat. "You needn't ask for anything."

John smiled at him shyly.

He slid his fingers along the spines of the books with a reverent expression. Pulling one out- a history of early organ transplantation- he flipped through the yellowed pages, seemingly fascinated with the detailed illustrations and photographs. His head bent over the page as he inhaled the old book scent.

With one last hesitant glance, John carried the book back to his chair and settled down to read. Thoroughly approving of the quiet activity, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa assuming his preferred thinking position. He flexed his toes against the end of the sofa, humming happily to himself. He took time to begin piecing through the day's events; not a full exploration in his Mind Palace, not with the delivery of food imminent, but a peaceful moment of recollection, reliving the highlights.

A companionable quiet drifted over the room, comforting and warm which made the ensuing knock at the door seem intrusive and unwelcome. Sherlock heaved himself up from the couch, stomping lightly to return feeling to his limbs, as he opened the door. Tony stood on the other side beaming and holding up a giant, delicious smelling paper bag.

Sherlock scowled at the interruption and snatched the bag away. Tony, well accustomed to Sherlock's antics, merely tipped his hat.

"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Holmes," he said with a laugh. He stood once on his tip-toes trying to peak over Sherlock's shoulder at John, and then jogged back down the stairs, out onto the street.

John raised a single eyebrow as he eyed the mammoth-sized bag of take away.

"Angelo doesn't know the meaning of portion control," muttered Sherlock. He left the food in the living room while he fetched a mismatched pair of plates and cutlery from the kitchen.

Sherlock picked at his food as he watched John from the corner of his eyes. John ate his food rapidly but neatly. He seemed to enjoy the flavour but dedicated no time to savouring it. Clearly, a remnant of his time in the army. As John's eating slowed, Sherlock began noticing signs of fatigue.

"Tired?"

John clasped a hand over his mouth to hide a yawn.

"I'll show you upstairs," ordered Sherlock, placing his fork on the table.

John made a strange twitch like he had started to shake his head and then froze. He pushed back from the table retreating to the other side of the room where he very deliberately took a seat. Sherlock followed, pulling his chair to better face the telly; he could hear the scrape of wood against the flooring as John mimicked him.

Sherlock tossed the remote to John who quickly selected The One Show, not because he had a particular interest in the program but because he felt it would be a neutral choice. Sherlock let the matter lie; he would have other chances to determine John's taste in television, and find it suitably dreadful, no doubt.

They watched in silence, or rather, John watched the telly and Sherlock watched John, at least, until the drivel distracted him.

Sherlock made a frustrated groan, thrusting his open hands at the telly.

"How can people believe such nonsense?" he asked, after a particularly illogical story.

John shot him an amused glance, smothering a laugh. He shook his head.

The next time Sherlock glanced at John; he had shifted in his chair and was leaning back with his eyes closed, breathing slowly.

"You really should go to bed."

John shook his head sluggishly, half-asleep.

"Don't blame me when your neck cricks."

He took the opportunity to turn off the telly.

"Do you mind if I play?" asked Sherlock, causing John to shift restlessly, but he was clearly well on his way to being asleep. Sherlock judged him unlikely to be bothered by the music as long as it wasn't too vigorous. John shifted again as Sherlock moved.

"Shh," said Sherlock softly. "I'm just getting my violin."

The notes poured out of him in a slow mournful tune as he recreated a song he had heard two days ago. At the time, he had derided its simplicity but now he used it to soothe John deeper into sleep. John's limbs went limp as he lolled in his seat. His breathing deepened, becoming steady puffs of air.

Sherlock seamlessly switched into free-style using the short puffs as a metronome. They soared together, floating on the sound. Sherlock and the violin were one, and John; John was there underneath it all guiding them. Sherlock had never felt so content.

AN: Thanks again to K_for_kurfuffle. The song that Sherlock begins playing for John was inspired by Ghost Lullaby by Max Ablitzer. You can find it on Youtube.


End file.
